


Table Manners

by fengirl88



Series: Dressing the Part [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Embarrassment, Exhibitionism, Humour, M/M, PWP, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-03
Updated: 2011-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is <i>not</i> going to look under the tablecloth.  Because even Sherlock wouldn't, not really –</p><p>Would he?</p><p>Lestrade finally makes That Speech at the Police Federation's fancy lunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Table Manners

**Author's Note:**

> written for the "exhibitionism" square for kink_bingo. Completes the trilogy that begins with Dressing the Part and continues in Sherlock and the Art of Public Speaking; this probably makes more sense if you've read those two.

He's always hated making speeches, but it's never been like this before.

Lestrade's knees are buckling, his heart is racing, and he knows he can't keep going much longer. It's like that bloody fitting-room in the posh department store all over again.

With a couple of crucial differences this time. One: the beautiful new designer suit is not round his ankles. Two: Sherlock's not sucking him off.

Sherlock, in fact, is nowhere in evidence. Which is seriously worrying.

He'd thought that at least if he wangled Sherlock an _official_ invitation to the Police Federation's fancy lunch it would stop the bastard from sabotaging his bloody speech the way he'd sabotaged the rehearsal last week – _don't think about that now, Lestrade, for fuck's sake_. So he'd had to persuade the Police Federation organizers that Sherlock should be invited to their session on Police and Community in Partnership. Got a few funny looks in the process, not surprisingly. Still makes him sweat, thinking about that conversation.

Sherlock had a fucking nerve, suggesting he could come as Lestrade's _plus one_. The Police Federation doesn't _do_ plus ones, and if they did he wouldn't be bringing Sherlock as his.

Because they're not in a relationship. Whatever being in a relationship means. Just because the mad bastard keeps jumping him –

Concentrate, Lestrade. Nearly there now.

Gregson's looking like he's swallowed a rotten frog, but that's par for the course. Dimmock's nodding sagely as Lestrade gets to the bit about _maintaining proper boundaries_ and the danger of compromising investigations. (Surprised Sherlock passed that bit of the speech, in retrospect. Probably distracted by kicking up a fuss about grammar.)

Still no sign of the bastard. _Shit_.

He _knows_ Sherlock was over there at the far end of that big table when lunch started, but he's not there now. Must have gone to the loo or something, bloody typical, probably missed the whole thing, at least Lestrade hopes that's what's happened –

He is _not_ going to look under the tablecloth. Because even Sherlock wouldn't, not really –

Would he?

It was bad enough in that fitting-room cubicle last week, shoving his fist into his mouth to keep quiet, hearing the shop assistants going about their business just the other side of the wall. Or right here, the same afternoon, worrying that the hotel staff might come in at any minute, trying to keep going with his speech while Sherlock sucked him off. But _this_ –

Christ, he can't remember the last time he had this much adrenalin pumping through his veins. Apart from when he's been having sex with Sherlock, obviously, _not helping seriously not helping stop thinking about it NOW_.

The words seem to be coming out all right though. Ironic if that mad bastard was right and the distraction _did_ help with his stage fright. Because that fucking speech is the least of his worries right now.

Last paragraph, why the fuck did he make this speech so _long_ , feels as if it's been going on for hours though he's timed it repeatedly at fifteen minutes exactly, aaaand –

Made it. Jesus.

Lestrade's knees give way and he sits down thankfully, boggling slightly at the enthusiastic applause – they can't possibly be as glad as he is that it's over.

The president of the Met branch gets up to make his little thank-you speech and introduce the Police Federation's new short film. Lestrade breathes a sigh of relief and –

 _What the flying blue fuck?_ –

He feels his zip being pulled down and the first touch of Sherlock's fingers as they trace the outline of his cock, _oh god_. Feels the moist heat of Sherlock's tongue lapping at his rapidly growing erection, teasing caress of warm air on damp fabric and ultra-sensitive skin as Sherlock blows deliberately along the line he's just licked. Intensifying wet heat as Sherlock begins sucking him through his boxers.

Lestrade bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out and hopes to God nobody's filming this event, because he doesn't like to think what his face is doing right now. The sensation stops unexpectedly, and Lestrade quickly pretends to drop his napkin so he can bend down and glare at Sherlock under the long white tablecloth.

This is not a good idea, as it turns out. Because the sight that meets his eyes is Sherlock freeing Lestrade's now fully hard cock from his boxers.

Fuck.

Lestrade briefly considers stabbing Sherlock, but the only cutlery left within reach is his dessertspoon. Even that's got chocolate mousse on it, which the mad fucker would probably take as encouragement.

Sherlock looks up at Lestrade and _grins_ , the bastard, then starts gently lapping at the head of his cock before closing his lips over it and sucking in earnest.

“Enjoyed your speech, Lestrade,” the chairman murmurs, as Lestrade straightens up again and tries not to moan. “Well delivered, too, very good. But where's your consultant friend got to – is he all right?”

Sherlock responds to this acknowledgement of his existence with a wicked movement of his tongue that nearly makes Lestrade go cross-eyed.

At which point, mercifully, the big screen for the film rolls down, the lights go out, and Lestrade prays to whatever gods watch over poor bloody DIs that the film is both long enough and loud enough. From the pace Sherlock is setting and the delicious torture of his skilful licks and touches, Lestrade can tell this is going to be one of _those_ blowjobs. The ones that usually end with him begging for release and shouting Sherlock's name as he comes. The kind where what you really need on the soundtrack is the 1812 Overture.

When he gets out of here – if he gets out of here alive and doesn't expire from the strain of trying to keep quiet, that is – he is seriously going to do...something to Sherlock. Not sure what it is yet and his brain's certainly not working well enough to come up with anything, and anyway he's probably just going to have a coronary, _oh fucking hell Sherlock oh god_ –

After what feels like hours but can only be a matter of minutes, Lestrade is sweating and shaking, thighs taut with the strain of approaching orgasm. The annoying voice on the film soundtrack is saying something particularly crass about _the challenges of working with laypeople and freelance consultants in twenty-first-century policing_ , and Lestrade can _feel_ Sherlock laughing silently around his cock.

Lestrade hopes he can explain away his groaning as sudden indigestion. But he's past caring now, nothing short of the roof falling in would stop him from coming and he's not too sure even that would do it. He gives up the unequal struggle, grips Sherlock's hair and comes till he sees stars in the darkened function room.

“Are you all right?” the president whispers, and Lestrade mumbles something about sudden illness, _probably just heartburn, get some fresh air_. Feels Sherlock wiping him off and shoving his hanky down Lestrade's boxers again. _Bastard_. Going to have words with the evil little fucker about that and a few other things. Just as soon as he stops feeling so dizzy.

Somehow Lestrade manages to stagger from the room, too preoccupied to wonder how Sherlock's going to escape undetected. Finds the smug bastard waiting for him in the alley round the side of the hotel. Department of No Surprise.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you're playing at?” Lestrade yells.

“I should have thought that was obvious,” Sherlock says, smirking.

“Sherlock, I swear I am _this_ close to putting your head through that wall –”

“I was expressing my appreciation of your speech,” Sherlock says, like this is the most natural thing in the world. “It was really quite good. Largely thanks to me, of course. And that's definitely the best you've done it –”

Lestrade is – well, _speechless_. Appropriately enough. He stares at Sherlock, wishing he felt strong enough to thump him properly. Still doesn't, unfortunately.

“Not bad at all,” Sherlock says, clearly still preening himself. “I felt it deserved more recognition than you were going to get from that bunch of stuffed shirts.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, through clenched teeth. He unclenches his teeth again: talking through them isn't as easy as fiction makes it sound.

“ _Listen_ to me, you complete and utter wanker,” he says, grabbing Sherlock by the throat. “They may be stuffed shirts to you. But I _work_ with these people. Some of them are friends, almost.”

He lets go of Sherlock, who looks slightly abashed. Doesn't have a snappy comeback for once. Kicks moodily at a discarded cigarette packet.

“You could have got me _sacked_ , you fuckwit,” Lestrade says. “Anyone had twigged, it'd be all round the Met by tomorrow and all over the tabloids by Wednesday. Do you _want_ to find yourself working with Dimmock again? Or Gregson, for fuck's sake? Always assuming they'd let you anywhere near a case, which frankly –”

“'M sorry,” Sherlock mutters, shuffling.

Lestrade's seen more convincing performances from three-year-olds. Says so.

“You know I can't resist you when you're wearing that suit,” Sherlock says defensively. He starts stroking Lestrade's lapels again, and his expression goes a bit glazed.

As if Lestrade has done this _on purpose_. As if it wasn't _Sherlock's_ doing that he'd bought the bloody suit in the first place.

“Fine excuse,” Lestrade grumbles. “Oh, for crying out loud – Stop it, Sherlock!”

Sherlock, not one to let an alley go to waste, is pulling Lestrade close and rubbing up against him in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination. Lestrade tries to remonstrate, but remonstrating is bloody difficult when Sherlock Holmes is snogging you within an inch of your life. Nothing for it but to push Sherlock against the wall and unzip him, grab his cock and do the best you can to render him temporarily harmless. Won't last, of course: on past showing Lestrade's got half an hour, tops, before Sherlock starts in again, even though Lestrade makes him come so hard he's almost doubled up with it, shuddering and moaning.

Patron saint of posh tailors must be working overtime, Lestrade thinks. Because the beautiful new designer suit escapes unscathed yet again. Bloody thing seems to lead a charmed life.

“Right, you,” Lestrade says to Sherlock, who's still gasping. “Home. _Now_. Before you start getting any more ideas.”

Sherlock clings to his waist – knees obviously not working too well at the moment. Lestrade feels a brief flicker of triumph.

The taxi driver's not so cheerful about it, muttering “Bloody drunks!”, but he takes them anyway.

A post-orgasmic Sherlock is safe in taxis, more or less, slumped against Lestrade's shoulder, making occasional little whickering noises. But even though the journey back to Lestrade's flat is comfortably within the half-hour mark, Sherlock's already starting to perk up by the time they arrive. His refractory period seems if anything to be shorter these days, which is probably contrary to the laws of nature or something.

“You do realize this bloody suit is coming off the moment I get through that door?” Lestrade says warningly. “And not going back on again for a very long time.”

Sherlock looks at Lestrade and grins. “You read my mind, Inspector,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> kalypso_v suggested how to write a third fic when I didn't think I could, and was more a collaborator than a beta on the resulting draft. Heartfelt thanks to her and to blooms84 for additional brilliant suggestions.


End file.
